


A Casual Affair

by 13thDoctor



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Drinking, Espionage, Fluff and Angst, Gambling, Implied Relationships, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Napollya - Freeform, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo and Gaby have a running bet. They pick another person for the other to seduce, and whoever sleeps with him or her first wins a prize. But when Gaby selects Illya as their next target, Solo discovers his feelings for the other man may be less of a result of a wager than of something much deeper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bet

“I’ll give you driving privileges if you get… that one.”

She didn’t have to point him out. Solo looked the bellboy up and down and then rolled his eyes back to Gaby. “Please, you’re practically giving them away.”

She tipped her head and widened her eyes innocently. “Maybe the poor girl is tired of long road trips,” she pouted mockingly. Then, with an exaggerated flourish of her manicured hands to his broad shoulders, “Or maybe I think my _dearest friend_ deserves a reward for all his hard work. And I mean _hard._ ”

“You’re despicable,” he said, followed quickly by a chuckle.

Gaby clicked her nails together impatiently. “Well?”

“Well what?” he asked, mimicking her oblivious farce while he scanned the hotel lobby,

They were in London on another assignment, locating the kidnappers of some foreign emissary who had already been found but insisted upon justice. A man of immense ego as well as wealth, he naturally requested a covert service that could properly dispose of his wrongdoers without a scene or scandal on his part. Napoleon had little room to complain. Both the man and the U.N.C.L.E. agency were covering close to every expense, and the job had led them in a tour of some of the most affluent cities in Europe.

Gaby had driven through all of them. Solo had fucked his way through all of them.

The brunette waved her hand toward the stylish crowd and pursed her lips at her companion. “Pick one for me. And a prize.”

“Oh, this game.”

“Yes, this game, Solo. Or had you forgotten we are playing?”

“I had thought,” he began as he gestured to the bellboy to come over, “that you had given up after your last defeat.”

“I believe it was _your_ defeat, arschloch. That girl wouldn’t step within three feet of you after my intervention.”

“Exactly. You cheated. And I assigned you the easiest man in Madrid.”

“Mmm, who says the game is always fair? You are a sore loser.” She pulled off her sunglasses and snapped them together with a loud _clack._ “I suppose not _too_ sore anymore.”

Her teeth flashed a brilliant white when she smiled. Before he could retort, the bellboy was over, stuttering apologies for the wait and piling their luggage onto a gold plated cart. Gaby raised her eyebrows at Solo and appraised the boy’s backside openly, inviting her partner to do so with a subtle bump of her sunglasses in his direction. Determined not to be labeled a coward, Solo bit.

“We weren’t waiting too long… I’m sorry, I haven’t caught your name.”

Caramel eyes met his own, and the boy blushed. He had to be at least ten years younger than Solo. “William, Sir,” he mumbled. “Will that be all the luggage for you and your wife?”

“No need to call me, Sir. Gaby, do I look that old? No, don’t answer that. And she’s far from my wife, Will, just a friend.” He said this all with his lips fashioned in a charming smirk, eyes bright and blown, gaze fixed on his target. He caught Gaby out of the corner of his eye hiding laughter behind her wide brim hat.

“Very good, Si—uh….”

“Just call me Solo. My full name I only give in more… intimate settings.”

He tipped generously and left the boy a fumbling, red faced mess. Gaby was almost in tears as they walked arm-in-arm up the stairs. She chocked them back and calmed herself enough to insist he find suitable challenge for her by lunchtime. Considering it was already ten thirty, he felt somewhat rushed. He expressed as much and she accused him of ruining the game.

“Excuse me, miss!” he yelled across the hall. A tall blonde turned, curls cascading down her back. Already tall, she wore white platform heels over white tights and a teal and yellow striped dress. As they approached, he could already see her blue mascara. She was stunning.

“Yes?” she asked him, jutting her hip out as most women did when they thought he had come to flirt.

“My sister here, you see, this is our first time in the city, but I’ve promised to take her to _all_ the best shops for a new dress or six. I saw you and could not help but admire your outfit, and you _must_ know the _best_ places…” he gushed. Gaby concealed her embarrassment as a mortified yet flattered sister might. Solo would never admit it aloud, but he was simply astounded by her acting abilities.

“You talk like an American, but she dresses like a Russian and looks like a German. It’s intriguing,” she said. “And I adore that.” She stuck out her hand for him to kiss, and he did so happily. “I’m Carol.”

“Solo, and this is—”

“Gaby,” she interjected, smoothly stepping in front of him. “Delighted.”

“As am I,” Carol purred. There was an irrefutable hunger in her eyes when they swept Gaby.

They chatted excitedly about clothes and cars and laughed about boys as he pretended to admire the window fixtures. Gaby touched various parts of the woman’s body, allegedly appreciated the fashion and fabric. Carol enjoyed that. So they had both picked easy marks. He just needed to think of a prize, and a way to get that bellboy alone…

“Solo, I’m going out now. Do make sure our luggage arrives at the room.”

“Be careful, darling,” he cooed, and moved close to kiss her on the cheek. Mouth pressed close to her ear, he whispered, “I get mine first, I get to drive a car _I_ pick.” She frowned subtly. “ _You_ win,” he continued, “and I _buy_ you a car.”

She beamed and quickly gave him a look that asked, ‘ _Are you really that confident in yourself?’_ before Carol swept her away back down the marble staircase. He turned back to the hall, strolling along with his key swinging in his hands, the question stuck like glue in his mind along with the opera he was currently humming. When he eventually found his room—a dark red door in a sea of dark red doors, labeled ‘236’ in bronze letters—he also found his luggage and his bellboy.

“Oh, good, I’ll need that change of clothes,” he announced, shutting the door behind him and sufficiently trapping his very, _very_ soon to be naked bedfellow.

Three hours later, when Gaby returned and found Solo and William in the shower together, he felt pretty damn confident in himself.

Feigning shock, Gaby managed to escort William out in under ten minutes, which was quite the record for the exit time of his usual one night stands. She paid him “for his trouble” out of Solo’s personal wallet and requested two bottles of champagne be delivered that night, along with “your most expensive cake.”

“I don’t eat cake,” Solo grumbled when she waltzed into the living room.

He had a glass of scotch in his hand, legs kicked up on the small mahogany table, slippers on. Shirtless, but with his dress pants still on, he supposed he looked an elegant mess.

“I know.”

She flopped down beside him on the floral patterned couch, with absolutely no regard to wrinkling the designer dress she wore. Solo did not move for her, so she stretched her legs out over his lap, the three inch heels of her shoes dragging across his trousers. A few minutes passed of companionable silence, both spies reflecting on the day’s events, before she clapped her hands together and declared gleefully, “You didn’t win!”

Solo scoffed and took another sip of his nearly empty glass. He needed to fix that.

“No, truly.”

“Have you suddenly developed short term memory loss? Do I have to describe, _in detail,_ what transpired while you were away?”

She bent forward and snatched his glass, draining the last mouthful as he looked on venomously.

“While that would be entertaining, no, but do _I_ have to describe _in detail_ what transpired in a dressing room while I was out with Carol?”

Solo’s eyes glinted, “If you’re offering…”

Gaby rolled her eyes, placed the glass on the carpet, and then threw a pillow at him. He caught it lazily and threw it back. A childish pillow fight ensued briefly until she tossed it too far. At a draw, they glared at each other.

“My point is that we have to pick new ones. These were too easy. Practice. And I want my car.”

“We’ve had our fun,” Solo placated.

The mechanic kicked him. “Since when are you so boring?”

“Since Illya is arriving tomorrow with our next lead and we have to be ready to actually work.”

Her brown eyes swelled to the size of the moon.

“Are you so drunk you already forgot our mission? I need to tell Illya to stop bringing you Vodka. He only does it because of those big doe eyes of yours.”

She continued to stare, an infuriatingly unreadable expression gracing her soft features. He tapped her leg lightly, and then much, much harder.

“Ow!” she yelled.

“Are you alive?”

“Yes.”

“…And…?” he prompted.

“Illya.”

“I’m lost.”

“ _How_ did you become an intelligence agent?”

“Gaby!”

“Alright. I think Illya should be our next target.”

Now he understood why she had taken his drink. It was not malice, as he had thought, but kindness, because he would have spit. Even so, he jumped a bit, which was proceeded by her amusement at his expense per usual. Wiping tears from her eyes, she asserted that she was serious and that the stakes would be much higher. She concluded that a challenge would make the currently boring—because being shot on the daily was dull at best—interesting and enjoyable. Solo found he could not argue. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the plush furniture, staring at the high ceiling as he waited for her to continue.

“The rules are simple,” she explained, growing increasingly excited with each word, “Whoever sleeps with him first wins.”

“What about kisses?”

“Insignificant. They can be forced.”

“Prize?”

For this, she did not have an instant answer. Instead, she laid back on the arm of the couch. Solo couldn’t see how it could be comfortable with such heavy hair and a thick necklace, but he made no mention of this to her. Questioning Gaby was never a safe choice.

“Simple satisfaction won’t do,” she said finally.

“I agree. It has to be substantial.”

“But not monetary.”

“No.”

“I have it!” she exclaimed. “The loser spends a week in Russia alone.”

He gave an extravagant shiver. “Terrifying. I’ll allow it.”

“The winner… Stays in whatever country, whatever city they want, and the loser pays for it all. While in Russia. Yes?”

Solo considered the wager. The odds were not in his favor, for sure. Illya had already expressed some sort of interest in their vixen of a teammate, and any passion extended toward Solo was that of loathing. Though he had saved both their lives, Gaby’s rescuing seemed more out of care and Solo’s out of necessity. Debt, perhaps. There was no obvious desire there as there often was when Gaby and Illya thought they were alone, as he had often witnessed.

“Do you think it’s unfair?”

“A little.”

“Are you still going to do it?”

“Of course.”


	2. The Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind comments! They really motivate me to keep posting, so, as promised, here is chapter two. Enjoy!

Illya did not wake his friends gently. Or rather, he did not wake _Solo_ gently. Gaby received five star treatment; he brushed her hand, her forehead, murmuring calm words in an accent that Solo thought would always sound aggressive but managed to sound pleasant. That aggression was apparent when he was pulled to his feet by two cold hands under his arms, standing him upright when he was in that fuzzy haze of light, aware sleep.

“Fuck!” he yelled. He could have sworn Illya smiled.

The hangover killed. He usually held his liquor well, but he and Gaby had downed a bottle of champagne each on top of the scotch, and his head was throbbing similarly to when he was drugged back in Rome by Victoria. Illya seemed to have a pattern of showing up when his mind was at its worst.

“You two have fun last night while I worked?” he asked, his voice clipped.

Solo wondered if he was jealous. “Oh, we got plenty done. Didn’t we, sugar?” he asked Gaby. She laughed and grimaced soon after. So he wasn’t the only one cursed with morning after blues. Illya’s eyes darkened, but his expressions were so perpetually angry that it was difficult to notice, especially with the room spinning.

“I think I’ll sit down now,” Solo stated to no one in particular. His bones cracked uncomfortably as he folded himself back onto the couch. Had it taken that long to sit last night? He couldn’t recall.

“We have leads.”

“Don’t we always?”

“Illya, I’ll go shower. Maybe he will recover by then.”

Solo closed his eyes and heard her heels clack against the floor toward the bathroom. A few seconds later he heard Gaby’s flirtatious, “Care to join me?” and kept listening only long enough to make sure Illya hadn’t. Then, with an inexplicable hot rage in his belly that he attributed to alcohol, he drifted into soothing unconsciousness.

“Cowboy, you have slept three hours now.”

“Oh Peril, I just love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“He’s serious, Solo. We have work to do.”

The American did not have to open his eyes to know the pair was leaning over him, impatient and exasperated and complaintive. When he did, the real image was almost identical to his mental one, though he had hoped someone would have coffee and breakfast for him.

“You’ll have to carry me,” he whined, only half joking. “And Gaby will have to bathe me.” 

Rubbing his face, he sat up and swung his legs to the front of the couch. They tingled painfully, and his neck and back were sore from whatever weird angle he had twisted himself into. Finally looking to his companions, he saw Gaby tapping her foot and Illya standing still and stoic.

“Or Illya, you could do both,” he offered.

A faint blush spread to the Russian’s cheeks, but his face remained neutral. He crossed his thick arms and pointedly took a few steps backward. Gaby looked positively triumphant; Solo was sure he just looked miserable. His back cracked when he stood and he gasped, earning a glare from Illya.

“I’m sorry my pain annoys you, Peril; I’ll keep my suffering to myself from now on.”

“It is not…” He caught himself. “Go. You stink.”

Gaby chimed in, her lips moving in neon coral malice. “I think it’s the best he’s ever smelt.”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish.” She blew him a kiss that ended with flipping him off as she moved to pick up her bags for the day’s errands. As she was dressed in a draped red poncho and white pants, he wondered what they could possibly be planning.

Solo tried to stand and faltered a few times before he found his balance. Illya made no move to assist him. In fact, he walked away, barking commands that barely stuck in Solo’s head while he found his way to the bathroom. He opened the white double doors, tossing his slippers off as soon as his feet hit the tile. The pants he stripped slowly, still aching in his joints. Finally naked, he extended his arms and spine to the sky, rolling his head in circles and sighing with relief. Only when he noticed Illya’s unhappy face watching him did he stop.

“Close doors next time,” Illya warned, and slammed said doors shut.

Solo liked a good challenge, but this was seeming impossible.

…

After he was clean, dried, and dressed—another hour later, the team liked to remind him crossly—they set out, choosing to walk the busy streets rather than drive them. Apparently Illya had briefed Gaby, because they were discussing the best tactics and approach in hushed tones beside him as he scanned a never-ending swarm of bodies. Electing not to ask, he instead tried to interrupt in increasingly irritating ways.

“Would you look at that monstrous hat—” “Gaby, you would look ravishing in that dress; let’s ask her where she got it.” “I think we need a team mascot; any ideas?” and so on. Eventually he succumbed to petty physical contact, bumping into them and making grabs for Gaby’s pristine white gloves.

“Cowboy,” Illya threatened when Gaby slapped him with those same gloves. Well, she kept them on her hands.

“Shockingly rude, Gaby,” he said, affronted. “Do you know what happens to naughty girls like you?”

“They get sent to East Berlin?”

“Touché,” he replied, and halted. Illya and Gaby begrudgingly waited with him.

“You two. Children,” Illya growled. “I should just do this myself.”

“Since we’re assigned as a _team,_ I find that highly improbable.” He smiled, a flash of clean white teeth and prominent incisors. “I would help if I knew where we were headed.”

“Right now we are stopped in middle of street, arguing, so I think we are headed nowhere.”

“Forever the pessimist, Illya. We’re always going _somewhere._ ”

If Gaby hadn’t been there, Solo thought, Illya may have struck him. Amongst all those people, men and women and children of all ages, Illya would have given him a bruise to remember.  Barred from this reaction, however, he settled for invading his personal space with a vengeance, mouth set in a firm line and hands shaking into fists. Napoleon wanted to set him off, he really did. There was something so fascinating about watching him break, because he resolved it by breaking other people. Some cruel part of the American wanted to see how far he could go with him, or what he had to do to make him stop.

Given any other circumstances, Solo would have pushed back, of course, but the bet with Gaby constrained him. Illya needed to dominate, that much was clear. He met his eyes only briefly before cocking his chin, baring his throat ever so slightly, and batting his long, thick eyelashes over obscenely blue eyes. Illya said nothing, but his gaze softened. Maybe there was hope yet. 

Gaby cleared her throat and the men jumped. “Sorry to break up this… whatever this is,” she interrupted, “but Illya, it’s almost noon, and we don’t have time for you two to measure your dicks.”

Illya snapped to attention as any reprimanded KGB agent would, breaking whatever bond in which he and Solo had been caught. Solo felt cheated by this girl, who looked like a child next to the towering wall that was Illya Kuryakin. Her rose tinted sunglasses could not hide her complacency.

“We need to keep moving,” Solo quipped as he strolled past the pair, who were yet again exchanging those infernal whispers.

“You do not know where you go,” Illya said, two strides catching him up to his partner. He seemed to have forgotten their spat.

“We have a lunch date,” Solo replied, and delighted in the surprise he received. “I’m guessing with a lead, either a snitch or a former victim, the former being more likely.”

“You are… not wrong.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“The ‘snitch,’ as you called him,” Gaby said, “won’t give us his name and insists on a public venue. So lunch it is. And Illya?”

“Da?”

“He’s smarter than you think. I won. You’re buying.”

They must have been an interesting sight to outsiders. Gaby’s laugh was infectious, drawing chuckles from Solo after he got over the initial shock that Illya had actually bet on his failure. Illya regarded them both with displeasure, a haughty teacher cursed with unruly students.

Solo took Gaby’s hand and twirled her beneath his arm, which seemed too easy for her considering the shoes she was wearing. Illya scoffed and Solo winked at him.

“Tell me, does this restaurant serve steak?”

Illya was followed by a chorus of outrageous dining hopes, from lobster stuffed with lobster to thousands of dollars’ worth of cheese alone. While he was scanning the tables for their contact, Solo and Gaby were scanning the menu. When he saw Gaby’s shoulders slump in disappointment, he wanted to laugh, but training and discipline controlled him. Instead, he uttered a stiff request for his ridiculous comrades to join him for a glass of wine, gesturing to the table behind their informant. Solo and Gaby nodded understandingly and went to his side. A formidable force, they made their way over to the table chatting about insignificant troubles and travel plans.

Once seated—Illya’s legs were far too long for the quiet café’s chairs, knocking into Solo’s uncomfortably multiple times—they perused creamy paper, wines listed in elegant script across it. Solo continued to bounce his knee against Illya’s, whose patience was as thin as the menu he held.

“Do you have death wish?” he asked from the corner of his mouth. It was a friendly tone he used for the threat, and Gaby gave no indication of hearing it.

“I have a few wishes that involve my body, but nothing like that.”

“I can kick your face from here.”

“I like my men flexible.”

“Boys,” Gaby whispered. She nodded toward their lead without looking up from her menu.

“Good afternoon.” Solo greeted their mysterious helper with his signature smile, leaning back in the chair so it only balanced on two legs.

Illya did _not_ irrationally put his hand on the table to steady him if he leaned too far over and fell.

Their confidant was a plain looking man, an average worker of sorts who could pass through the streets unnoticed and unchallenged. Solo pegged him as the scout for the kidnappers, the guy who gave the signal when the next victim was unaware. He did not trust him.

“What do you for me that could make this worth anything?” he asked. His breath was all cigarette smoke, his voice scratchy and deep, with an American accent.

“Do not waste time,” Illya cautioned him lowly, fingertips drumming the linen tablecloth.

Mystery Man stiffened, and Solo expected him to flee or demand money or hell, even drugs. But he did not expect the next words out of the man’s mouth.

“Didn’t know I was giving sensitive information to a Commie.”

Gaby rolled her eyes and snapped, “Help us and we don’t turn you over to the agency.”

“And a little German girl as well? Maybe she can be my… compensation.”

Furious, Solo stood, his chair screeching as the metal raked the ground. Illya’s hand, already shaking, extended marginally before he stopped it. Unsure why, he pinched the bridge of his nose and attempted to focus on the man’s comments and Solo’s vicious retorts.

“You brought some two-faced, bear fucking Commie and expect me to tell you anything? And without some cash?”

“I’d be careful; a man who fucks a bear shouldn’t be insulted. My friend deserves your respect.”

He laughed, an ugly, rasping sound. “A man who fucks another man deserves only death.”

“I don’t appreciate your implications about him.”

“I meant both of you.”

They were in each other’s faces, chests only an inch apart, Solo towering over the other man. It was an image of a sleek hunting dog over a mangy rat.

Gaby stood slowly, daintily, eyeing the café’s patrons, who had stopped eating to gawk. “Honey,” she said loudly, “this gentleman has had too much to drink. I’m flattered that you’re defending my virtue—”

The rat spat on Solo’s shoes. “Control your Nazi whore.”

Solo lunged, though with the distance between them already so small, it did not take long for impact. His fist slammed into the man’s head, nose, cheeks, anywhere. The Rat yelped and convulsed, attempting to flee, but Solo’s knees were on his stomach and his weight was too much to throw. Illya’s heart was pounding in his ears, vision clouded with the same red haze that Solo no doubt also saw.

The only sounds were those of the dull pound of flesh against flesh and those of screaming patrons. Illya moved without thinking; one arm snaked around Solo’s waist, the other around his shoulders. He dragged him to him until his back was flat against his chest. Their racing hearts and heaving bodies matched, two war drums.

“Your blood?” Illya inquired, a finger tracing the other agent’s knuckles.

Solo grunted an affirmative, almost lost amid the wail of police sirens and the Rat’s frantic coughing. If Illya had not been so enraged, he may have been impressed, as the dirty American was still hurling insults at the threesome.

“We need to go,” Gaby said, the only reasonable U.N.C.L.E. agent present.

Illya stood, hauling Solo to his feet, as well. Gabby pressed at the small of his back, urging him forward. They staggered together, too fast for comfort, until they were sure they were not being followed. They did not speak, they did not answer the concerned questions of the hotel employees, and they did not forget.

“He is dead man,” Illya hissed when they were back in the room.

“ _We_ might be dead if we just upset the wrong people,” Gaby advised, closing the door after a wary scan of the hall.

“We need plan.”

“I need to lie down.”

And it was the most insane thing Solo had ever done—and he had done many insane things—but all he could think of was the feeling of Illya’s skin on his, the feeling of their bodies pressed so close, with only that thin barrier of clothing to separate them…

Oh, he was _fucked._


	3. The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am simply overwhelmed with the positive feedback I have received for this fic! It means so much to me. Thank you, and as always, enjoy!

Sleep did not come to Solo, but he pretended it did. Illya and Gaby’s silhouettes swam in his half lidded eyes. They were arguing, hushed whispers that weren’t really whispers and frantic arm movements accompanying furrowed brows and grinding teeth. He had to strain to hear them, a surprise when considering the Russian’s usual booming vibrato.

“I just hate it when Mom and Dad fight,” Solo remarked.

He grimaced as he sat up, his hands habitually curling around the cushion edges. The throbbing in his head seemed to have relocated to his knuckles. Still raw, they were matted with dried blood and the beginnings of bruises. He surveyed them with indifference; they weren’t the worst he’d received in the line of duty.

Illya stopped talking mid-sentence and barreled over to Solo. The latter agent smiled smugly, flattered by the attention and expecting a careful inspection of his wounds. Illya’s long arms pressed into the couch on either side of his head, palms flat, face looming over Solo’s and yet _so close._

“How _dare_ you.”

 

Solo’s smile faltered. He licked his bottom lip and countered bemusedly, “How dare I sleep? You see, most normal human beings have to, but I suppose Russians are excluded.”

 

“I do not need you defending me. I am not coward. Or woman.” If Solo leaned forward, their noses would touch.

 

Gaby made a noise in the back of her throat from where she had been left standing before Illya had decided to threaten their partner. Illya did not flinch, nor did he break the almost unbearably frightening eye contact he held with Solo. The corner of his lip was curled, his eyebrows knit, eyes livid. Solo blinked a couple times, but this was not the time to submit, so he would not.

 

“I _defended_ Gaby. You were… collateral benevolence.”

 

“You say I fuck bear.”

 

Solo laughed, a short burst that was more of a snort than anything else. Illya straightened back up to his full height, towering over his sitting comrade.

 

“He said it first.” Solo held up one finger to illustrate his point.

 

Illya narrowed his eyes, a shadow cast over them by the brim of his hat. “I have had enough men accuse me of fucking other men to take care of it myself.”

 

Gaby and Solo looked at each other quickly, curiously, while they absorbed that. Solo chewed the inside of his cheek, barely noticeable, but Illya was far too perceptive. He clenched his jaw, the words sticking inside his mouth even as he contemplated saying them.

 

Napoleon filled the silence of his indecision. “And you would have killed him?”

 

He did not hesitate now. “Yes.”

 

Gaby inhaled sharply and tapped on the side-table. Solo cocked his head. “We need him alive,” he reminded the Russian.

 

“Correction- need _ed._ Now he’s just a threat. The sooner we take him out, the better, because he’s going to tell his team.”

 

“How can he _possibly_ swing that,” Napoleon asked, abandoning his couch seat to stretch his stiff legs and accost Gaby, “when he was meeting with us to sell their secrets?”

 

Gaby twisted her nose, thinking. Then, “Easy, he says we found him, hurt him for what we want.”

 

“Fuck me, you’re right.”

 

“In your dreams.”

 

Solo jutted out his head and scorned Gaby with silent, sarcastic laughter. She flipped him off, a provincial action she seemed to accomplish with sophistication.

 

A pause as they all breathed.

 

“So I kill him.”

 

Gaby and Solo threw their hands in the air at the same time, shouting “Fine!” in unison. Illya was obviously not entertained by their antics and elected to go to the bedroom and find his gun at their approval. Solo followed him alone, Gaby ushering him after Illya even as she located their London maps and a phone to call Waverly.

 

The American did not sneak; to do so would have been unsafe and an insult to his fellow spy. Thus his movements were casual, feet creaking on the hardwood and scuffing the carpet. Illya paused. Something stirred in his blood, and he felt the tips of his fingers twitch. They were shaking when Napoleon settled in the space beside him. “Cowboy, don’t.”

 

“You seem to be giving me a lot of orders lately. Doesn’t seem right.”

 

“You seem to talk to me too much lately.”

 

Solo grabbed Illya’s shoulders and forced him around. It was a poor choice, he knew, but impulse control had never been his forte. Standing this close, he should have felt threatened, but he could only remember the way Illya’s chest had felt against his back in the café.

 

“I thought we were passed this. Do you remember Rome, Peril? Saving each other’s lives? Was I wrong to call you my friend?”

 

His hands had not moved from Illya’s shoulders. That was dangerous. The Russian stiffened, holding his breath while he opened and closed his hands at his sides. Solo had so many things to say, but so little time. A man usually so good with words, he was somehow rendered speechless. It both unnerved and excited him.

 

Solo barely uttered a syllable before Gaby’s voice echoing from the adjacent room.

 

“Boys! Waverly’s said he will be here in an hour, and he wants tea. And hard liquor.”

 

They separated as if electricity had shocked them apart. Illya rolled his shoulders, Solo ran his hand over his pristine hair, and that was the end of it. The Russian went to his packing, and the American went through the door without turning back.

 

“I haven’t lost, have I?” Gaby asked with a suggestive nod to the bedroom.

 

Solo muttered, “We were barely in there for ten minutes.”

 

She shrugged. “I’ve seen shorter.”

 

“Ah—No, I can’t even, I…” His frown broke into laughter until he and Gaby were doubled over, so overcome with the day’s events that they could only fall apart. She handed him a drink—more scotch had been bought—and everything was right again, or at least numbed enough to feel right.

 

Illya stormed out some time later; Solo didn’t know how long they had been out there, but it must have been a while and the KGB agent in another room must have thought the pair had gone mad.

 

“You are ill?” he wondered, but could not suppress a small grin at the sight of them drinking and lying on the floor like ill-fated party-goers.

 

“Join us, it’s good for you.”

 

“No drink?”

 

“No laugh, either?” Solo asked, mimicking the Russian accent awfully. Illya, surprisingly, did not fix him with any sort of threatening glare.

 

“Progress,” Solo said before he could catch his tongue. Luckily, his teammates were no longer paying attention to him.

 

Illya stood by the balcony window, frowning, and Gaby was on her way to meet him. Their boisterous laughter was replaced by eerie silence, only punctuated with a gentle rustle of clothing when someone moved.

 

“Is Wave—”

 

“Shht,” Illya ordered. “Hear it?”

 

Solo shook his head, foggy with booze and disappointment, both of which could really be attributed to the man he was presently conversing with. Then, faintly, a beep, followed by another, then another and another until the incessant sound was screaming almost as loud as Gaby. Air was ripped from his lungs before he could cry out. The bomb exploded in an earth shattering cacophony, a critical assault to his ear drums. The world was fire and smoke and ash and blinding light.

 

The last thing he saw was Illya reaching for him, and then the world was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and... not so sweet? Oops. You didn't think I could make them happy, did you? I'll hopefully update this week.


	4. The Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long! School starts again soon, so please be patient with me! I love writing this story, especially when I hear how much you all love it. The comments and kudos honestly make my day. Know they are appreciated and valued enormously. Enjoy!

When bombs detonate, nothing is in slow motion. The setting becomes a furious one, full of hate and fear and regret. Everything flies, even the bodies, and it’s so loud that it’s almost silent. It doesn’t hurt when the glass cuts, not yet, because everything is numbed by shock. And then it all slows down, the airborne bodies slam into some immovable object, and everything ceases to exist for one a suspended moment as ears ring and sense returns.

Solo breathed through his nose and inhaled a cloud of ash. Coughing, he attempted to sit upright, and found that he was held down by the broken pieces of the couch and table. Head whirling, he tried to make sense of the situation. Breathe, assess. He shut his eyes tight, willing away memories of grenades during the war.

“What a shame, all this designer furniture going to waste,” he said, but his throat was so dry it was scarcely audible.

He moved his head and remembered to close his eyes right before a mound of dust hit his forehead. He spoke again. “God damn!”

He must have been heard. “Cowboy?” a faint voice inquired. Solo wondered if Illya was as parched as he was or if his own eardrums were the issue. Neither option was particularly pleasant.

Solo sighed in relief. “Illya!” he called, and ignored his pulse when it calmed and slowed at the sound of the other man’s voice. “I can’t move. Do you see Gaby?”

He tracked movement in his peripheral vision, the outline of a giant. The rubble tumbled with each of his steps, shattering more glass. Each pace was accompanied by a chorus of crashes and bumps, and thick curses in Russian.

“I found shoe.”

“Is there a leg attached?”

There was a pause as he inspected this. Then, “No. No blood, either.”

Solo’s pulse was almost back to a normal rhythm. “We have to find her.”

Ghastly images of her tiny body folded in on itself bombarded his brain. He couldn’t live with himself if his mistake had cost the team her life.

“I am working on this,” Illya growled, straining to speak as he lifted the heavier debris, “if maybe you want to get off your ass?”

“I can’t even _feel_ my ass. That’s happened only once before, though the circumstances were entirely different.”

Illya either did not hear him or decided to ignore him, as the next ten minutes passed without communication. Solo struggled against the plethora of furnishings holding him down, praising them when they moved and insulting them when they did not. Illya continued his search to little avail, his frustration increasingly apparent with the velocity the objects he was tossing aside were travelling at. Solo hoped his partner wouldn’t contribute to re-burying him.

Solo finally pulled his left leg free, and soon after, they heard a hack ripped from someone’s lungs across the room. Identical expressions of relief and panic painted the men’s faces when they looked at each other, then the source of the sound.

Still stuck, Solo urged, “Go!”

The Russian did not have to be told twice. His long legs took him there in only a few strides, and he dug at the pile gingerly. Without a visual, there was too much risk of hurting Gaby in the process of finding her.

“Solo? Illya?” she asked, no wavering in her voice despite her condition.

“We are here,” Illya appeased. “I must get you out.” He had a sizable pile of relocated rubble next to him, but by twisting his neck Solo could make out that he had not found Gaby yet.

“Are you hurt?” Solo called, almost done freeing his other leg. He could now sit up, albeit in quite the lopsided position, and watch Illya’s progress on the pile.

“Scrapes, bruises, nothing you don’t have,” she yelled back. “Mostly I’m angry.”

“Tell me about it,” Solo muttered, poking his torn clothes. “I just bought these.”

“Priorities, Napoleon! I’m still under half our building!”

“Oh, now you’re just looking for attention!”

Illya barked, “Shut up,” but whether it was directed at one or both of them was unclear.

Solo continued removing his foot from captivity, a painstaking process that he knew could only result in the loss of his shoe. Unable to bear the loss quite yet, he settled on twisting his ankle around absentmindedly as he considered the day’s events. Nothing about this mission was supposed to be so complicated. Then again, the one in Rome wasn’t, either. Heaving a defeated sigh, he slid his foot free, his shoe remaining in the broken mass that had once been his favorite hotel couch. Then he stood and went to his team.

Through the settling clouds of dust he could make out their shapes—the inhuman Russian, the much smaller German. She was brushing herself off, speaking her native tongue to Illya, who was naturally just as fluent.

“It looks like we’re all alive, but what are we going to tell the agency?”

“That we should have been more careful,” Gaby answered drily. “And that this is what happens when men have too large egos.”

Solo took little offence; it was mostly his fault and he knew it. Contending her would only cause tension, and not the good kind.

“Oh, children, what _have_ you done?”

Waverly stood in the doorway, or rather the hole that used to be the doorway, chewing thoughtfully on a pipe and holding a small briefcase. He was the only clean thing in the vicinity.

“You should have been here when the bomb actually went off; much more exciting,” Solo greeted.

“It’s a miracle no one was killed. Half the fire brigade is outside, dousing the building. I had to wave my badge in every man’s face and his mother’s to get inside.”

“I’d offer you a drink, but…” Napoleon gestured lamely to where the mini bar used to stand; now it was spread in various parts of the room along with the spilled liquor.

The three agents stood side by side, Illya in the center looking cross, Gaby on his right looking attentive, and Solo on his left looking mildly concerned.

“How you three managed to muck up such a remarkably simple case is beyond me, but now that it’s come to this, you need a better strategy. But I also need my tea. Come along, I know a quaint café just around the corner.”

Gaby and Solo laughed at the same time, a long, tired, horrified sound that continued far past normal parameters for such reactions. Illya smiled and informed Waverly that that was where Solo had started this whole incident, which concluded in the Brit’s justified statement that they had ruined everything in Europe.

“Mostly true,” Illya concurred.

Solo stared at him, mesmerized. Illya did not appreciate the attention, shrugging awkwardly and moving to talk to Waverly. Solo concentrated on not seeming disappointed.

“We talk here. Any bug is destroyed now. Most private place we find.”

“Mr. Kuryakin, I regretfully admit that you’re right.” He put away his pipe, opened the files in his hand, and passed them out to his agents, all of which now stood in haphazard half circle around him.

“We know very little other than what you have already heard. Ten men, incredibly mobile. Our client has been cooperative, but is impatient with results.”

“Perhaps the men who rescued him initially should be the ones chasing his _former_ kidnappers around the country,” Solo complained. “And getting bombed.”

“We _do_ have the name of the man you assaulted, Napoleon,” Waverly chastised, ignoring the other man.

Illya’s eyes darkened, a snarl in his mouth and loathing in his eyes. Solo laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Hey, we’ll get this guy.”

“I do not plan on leaving much of his body intact.”

Solo was rarely afraid of Illya, but these moments had him questioning his usual feelings of ease and affection for the Russian. He was a stone cold KGB killer, but sometimes Solo forgot he hadn’t always been _their_ stone cold KGB killer.

Waverly cleared his throat. The boys snapped to attention, Gaby stomping on Solo’s shoeless foot with her own bare one. “No cheating,” she hissed as Illya and Waverly flipped through the file on the Rat.

“Gaby dear, did you say something?” Waverly asked, perceptive as ever.

“No.” She answered too quickly. Waverly looked at her and Solo with his eyebrows raised, handed the other filed to their studious Russian, and beckoned them over to the other side of the room.

“No cheating?” he asked Gaby. She flushed and he cut off her explanation before she could start.

“When have personal feelings ever come before a mission?” This was directed at Solo.

“Sir, you’re our handler, but that doesn’t mean we don’t need some… handling, on the side.”

Waverly squinted his eyes and shook his head as if he could erase the image Solo had just conjured. By the distressed look on his face and his accompanying aggrieved exhale, Solo could tell it hadn’t worked.

He frowned. “Whatever this is between you two, and I’m sure it is neither appropriate nor mature, it needs to stop this instant, especially if Mr. Kuryakin is concerned. The saying goes that playing with fire will get you burnt.”

Solo couldn’t help himself. “Kinky,” he jibed, and earned another stomp from Gaby.

Their boss’ eyes narrowed and he scowled. “Your mission takes precedence over any personal matters. Am I clear?”

Though he did not appreciate being chastised, Solo knew when to quit. “Crystal,” he promised, flashing a smile for effect.

They rejoined Illya, who had either not noticed their departure or had thought it inconsequential. Piling some furniture together and moving some miraculously whole pieces, he had fashioned a makeshift stool and table, where he sat and where the files were spread. He had written all over the papers in red, a disturbing shade of ink given his plans for the Rat.

“You also need to put personal matters below this mission, Kuryakin. The gruesome death of one man is not worth the loss of this case,” Waverly warned.

Solo sighed in relief when Illya did not inquire as to the nature of the personal matters of his and Gaby’s Waverly had referenced.

Illya did not look up. “You are smart man. You know I get it done.”

The Brit pinched the bridge of his nose, wrinkled face crinkling further as he massaged the headache away. Solo was struck with a distinct comparison to the man and an exasperated parent. He thought it was a bit unfair given they had just been targets of a bomber, but espionage had never been a rational career.

“U.N.C.L.E. is the best at what we do. Sort this out soon.” He moved to exit.

“Do we at least get a new room?”

“Ah, yes, almost forgot.” Waverly plucked a key from his jacket pocket and set it in Gaby’s open palm. “That opens a suite in the hotel across the street. You don’t have to play dead, either.” He smiled. “Don’t ever say I don’t bring good news.”

“Thank you,” Gaby said. “We _will_ find these men.”

“I believe it. Good afternoon.” He left through the hole; they heard his grumbled complaints as he maneuvered down the stairs, and then everything was silent once more.

Solo walked over to Illya and leaned over his side, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the files. “What’s the plan, Peril?”

Surprisingly, Illya did not remove him, though his body was rigid. The Russian pointed to a list of names, then informed his team, “We find, we get information, we eliminate.”

“Okay,” Gaby agreed, coming around to Illya’s other side.

Solo ignored the burn in his stomach when she did. He was a professional. A professional who leaned a little lower, tightened his grip on Illya, and let their hands linger closer together on the table. His eyes found the scar on Illya’s cheek, and he wanted the story there. He also needed his lips to touch his skin there.

“I’m in if you are,” he said, and couldn’t resist a small smirk. “When do we start?”

“Right now.”

“You move so fast,” he said, pretending to be scandalized. His blue eyes sparkled.

Illya nodded sincerely, the joke lost on him. “It is Russian way.”


	5. The Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been so terribly long. I feel like an awful person, and I trust you to hold me in contempt. Also, after this chapter, you may hate me more. Who knows? And to all those lovely commenters- your words are what keep me going. Know you are my inspiration and my anchors. I won't make any promises about how soon the next chapter is coming, but know that once the movie is out on DVD, I will view it and write frantically. Thank you and enjoy as always!

It took them only ten minutes to realize Waverly had left a suitcase of new clothes for them, as all of theirs were covered in ash, incinerated furniture, and blood. Practical and functional, they were perfect for the hit they were planning. Solo was reminded why the Brit was their director when he saw the sweaters, slacks, and denim.

Illya passed out the clothes silently, his mouth set in a firm line. Solo could see his plan formulating in his mind, steps to kill and maim and destroy. He looked more like the KGB agent who had run Gaby and Solo down in East Berlin than the man who had almost died beside them.

With over half the room shattered to bits or blown away and open, they had little room to change. Gaby whisked herself away to the other room, which, while no longer very private, was at least an area of more modesty than the living room. Illya seemed anxious, eyes settling on myriad spots before some reason changed his mind. Curious but on the clock, Solo shrugged and stripped.

Illya bristled and turned, his fingers sliding up his ruined sweater. Solo noticed that his customary hat was missing; he couldn’t remember how long it had been gone.

He shook his head. Shirt off, he unbuckled his belt, fingers clumsy from being curled and crushed under the rubble. The room echoed with sounds of undressing; Gaby could be heard in the other room rooting around the ruins for any helpful items. Perhaps the guns were intact, locked away in their suitcases. But Waverly had provided new ones, anyway, and there were spares in the bathroom, which had survived the blast radius.

“You know, I imagined the circumstances would be different the first time we got naked together,” Solo quipped, mostly to break the silence hanging over them.

“I’m not in the mood, Cowboy.”

“For fucking or fighting?”

Illya rotated to face him, muscles rippling as he pulled his shirt over his head. Solo caught a hint of scars, thin white lines across his abdomen and pectorals, before they were covered in navy cotton. He hadn’t bothered to wipe the blood from his body like Solo had, and the scarlet stained his new sweater instantly.

“You think this is game?”

It was now or never. “No, I think this is me coming on to you.”

The warning in the Russian’s eyes was clear. Dark, heated, unadulterated fury rolled off him in waves, hitting Solo like the high tide of the ocean. Even half dressed, he felt completely exposed, victim to salt spray and buffeting wind. Illya’s hands shook at his sides, fingers vibrating like bullets. Solo wondered if their trajectory was his face.

“I’m coming out whether you boys are done or not. I hope you’re not doing anything _inappropriate_!” She pitched her voice higher and adopted a snobbish accent on the last word, barely containing her amusement.

Focus broken, they both released breaths that had not meant to be held. Solo tore his eyes away from Illya’s with his heart racing, finished pulling on his straight leg slacks, and bent down to tie his shoes.

“No, mom!” Solo answered, laughter hiding the lump in his throat, and heard a huff of charmed frustration from the girl as she emerged.

Illya wasn’t the only one tethered to his roots this mission. Waverly had outfitted Gaby in much more modest wear than she was used to as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Hair pulled under a white kerchief, body pulled into a denim jumpsuit and long sleeved white V-neck, she looked every bit the East German chop shop girl on which Solo had first laid eyes. Though she had kept the white heels, now grey with ash. She had also cleaned off the dust and reapplied a small amount of makeup.

Solo appraised her politely, mouthing “Sexy” and giving her two thumbs up when she looked disappointed. She had delighted in dressing the part so much the past year that the original outfits of Gaby Teller were the costumes, not the thousand dollar skirts she donned. Placated, though only somewhat, she pulled firearms from her pockets and handed two to each man.

“That should be enough. This shouldn’t take long.”

“In, out, a quick bang or two, I think,” Solo said, eyes bright.

Gaby elbowed him and he dodged easily, dusting up his new shoes on the powder covered ground. She chuckled at his misfortune.

“We leave no survivor. Best way to get rid of organization is to get rid of all people. No one in building breathes when we are finished.”

In this professional manner, Illya could work with Solo. Their tangible dissonance had subsided when business became the topic, when instead of fantasizing kisses the Russian could fantasize kills. Solo had always envied Gaby for her way with him, to make him loosen up, thaw that frigid exterior whenever she wanted him to. The American was no stranger to mixing business and pleasure, had even been called “frustratingly good” at it, but Gaby surpassed him where Illya was concerned. The thought boiled his blood in a way that made him question his own sanity.

“I’ll be listening on the outside, and I’ll be in contact with Waverly, should we need him,” she told them, handing out tiny earpieces.

“Why are you under cover if you’re just the getaway car?”

Gaby’s eyes shone. “Because we need a car.”

They smiled at each other for a second, and then immediately devolved into a spat about which type of car they should steal. Gaby insisted aggressively that since she was committing the theft it was up to her, and Solo contended the point lamely until he gave in.

“Now that that’s settled,” she said, and then trailed off. “Jesus, Illya, are you bleeding?”

Solo followed her eyes to Ilya’s side, where a dark maroon pool had formed on his sweater, a bloody circle in a dark blue ocean. His heart flipped.

The man shook his head, pressing a hand to hers as comfort. Solo’s heart flipped again and he cursed it silently.

“I am fine. It is blood from my old clothes; a stain from a small scratch when glass flew. Do not worry.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road, shall we? The firemen will make it to this room any minute now, and I don’t want to be around for questioning.”

“Now you are making sense, Cowboy.”

“Ha, ha.” He searched the room. “Does everyone have everything? Information, guns? God, I sound like a father.”

“A very poor one,” Gaby retorted wryly, and then motioned impatiently for them to set out as she slid on a pair of large, round sunglasses.

They stepped through the hole in the wall, Illya bolting ahead in eagerness. With his long legs, it wasn’t difficult to overtake them, and Gaby and Solo were breathing a little harder when they emerged from the back exit of the hotel onto the street. They all put their arms up to shield their eyes from the sunlight, blinding in contrast to smoke and ash.

“Lead the way, Peril.”

“I have the map,” Gaby reminded him.

“No need.” He brushed the paper away. “It is easy to track Rat. They stink.”

Gaby shrugged and smoothed the map out the best she could in the breeze. She tracked an outlined path with her finger, teeth biting gently into her lower lip in concentration. Solo watched Illya watch her mouth and something gnawed in his chest.

She looked up, seemingly unaware of her effect. “The garage is about a twenty minute walk from here. Based on Waverly’s information, our little troublemakers should be somewhere around there, also.”

Solo thought for a moment, blinked, put his hands in his pockets, and said, “We’re going to steal from one of their garages.”

An observer would have noted the insane glee on the three faces, the exuberance and wildness, and wondered what could make people look like that. No one could guess the thrill of the crime, the hunt, the retribution. Solo could feel it rushing through his blood like a drug. The trio let the effect sink in, nourishing them after very little sleep or food.

“Ready, boys?” Gaby asked, dropping the map—having already memorized the route—on a bench and pivoting expertly in her heels.

She did not wait for their reply as they leisurely matched her stride, a formidable wall of human ability. Heads turned, admiring and fearing alike. Illya, as always, seemed uncomfortable with the attention, shoulders slumped as he made the futile attempt to minimize himself. Solo drank in the attention as Apollo soaked in the sun, though he knew blending in would bode better for the mission. Gaby reminded him of this by occasional elbows to his side.

“What if I want them to know we’re coming, princess? Make them scurry like cowards before we exterminate them.”

Illya made a noise that could almost be a laugh. Solo gaped and nearly ran into someone as he turned the corner, which sobered the Russian up immediately. Gaby did not seem amused by their antics. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and tapped her leg in time with her steps. She walked faster than Solo and Illya, who marched slowly to survey like bodyguards to royalty.

The sun was falling in the sky, tingeing the streets and people with a soft orange glow. But they had little time to admire the scenery as they approached their destination. Gaby plucked her sunglasses off as if to see better and gestured subtly to her chosen garage, a well sized establishment with advertisements for myriad repairs in the windows.

Poker-faced, the boys nodded, then fell back even further and split at another corner. Illya and Solo had a tacit understanding during missions; an unbreakable intuition regarding the other’s next move. They would meet up eventually, but they needed to scout first. Their window was limited to Gaby’s ability, which, while impressive, could not hide a stolen car for very long when it was used to hit its owner’s nest.

Ten minutes later, when Gaby could be seen through the huge class doors of the building, leaning forward on the counter with her arms crossed under her breasts, they met back on the corner. They did not speak, sharing a fraction of a look before crossing the street and making their way around the block to the back of the garage.

They hoisted themselves onto a relatively stable pile of cars, a morbid metal monster glistening in the afternoon sun. It was an effort of labored breathing and careful footholds, but it was worth it. They would never be seen in such a mess, and it hung just right over the sandy pit that was the garage yard. They laid on their stomachs, Solo shifting closer and Illya shifting further away until they were left with Illya on the edge and Solo victorious. Illya would not look at him.

In the yard, there were heaps of engines and other scraps of long-forgotten vehicles. Workers mingled around the parts, some smoking and laughing, others wiping the sweat from their brows in concentration. Most were large, muscled, carrying crowbars and wrenches. Men played poker with dirty cards, sitting with their greasy elbows and torn coveralls squashed against the leftover hoods of cars. At the back entrance stood two armed guards, looking pitifully out of place in their clean suits. They had their jackets pulled back to reveal their pistols, either a fear tactic or arrogance. Solo assumed the latter.

Some commotion in the corner caught Solo’s eye, but when he turned to alert Illya, he saw the Russian had already noticed. The Rat was on his knees, sniveling apologies to five more men in suits, whose disgusted expressions were still apparent despite their black sunglasses. The Rat went to cling to one man’s leg and he kicked him, sending him into the sand face-first. A few mechanics dared to chuckle, but ceased the instant the Rat crawled back to his abusers.

Illya’s eyes were on the Rat alone, almost as if his gaze was through the barrel of a shotgun.

“You know, I think that expression, ‘If looks could kill’ came from someone who met you.”

“Then duct tape was made for your mouth.”

“Oh, so you’re into gagging people? I can work with that.”

Illya rolled over faster than Solo thought a human could move, pulling his body upwards until he was on his knees, which he slammed into Solo’s chest. Pinning the American,—who could barely breathe with the long constraints that were Illya’s legs—he lowered his head to beside his ear, making Solo shiver.

“Do not make me throw you off this pile,” the Russian growled, his accent thicker in his rage.

Ever irrational, Solo could only focus on that small scar, a sharp angle adjacent to his right eye. He had the overwhelming urge to trace it with his finger, and the idea brought his heartbeat back to the uncomfortable, irregular rhythm. He scowled.

“Then you understand. So do mission and stop speaking.”

Solo lifted his chin to expose his throat, gently pulled his legs to the side, and then snapped, vaulting up and catching Illya’s shoulders. They struggled, but caught off-guard, Illya was unbalanced. He fell beneath Solo, the American straddling him, palms pressed flat against the broad chest.

Long fingers curled into large fists, suspended above their metal roof. They had, surprisingly, made little noise, or at least none of noticeable consequence, and the garage yard was undisturbed. The Rat could still be heard groveling, the men still combining their work and play.

“Do not threaten me, Cowboy.”

“Hey, who came out on top, Peril?”

A gunshot stole Illya’s next words, carrying them away in the wind and resounding ruckus. Solo scrambled off of his partner and the two men looked at the yard.

The Rat lay in a pool of his own blood, a dark circle spreading from his chest to the ground beneath. Illya’s eyes went wide, then narrowed, before he plucked his pistol from his belt.

“He was mine to kill,” he said, but there was something unspoken there, too.

Illya braced himself to jump from the pile to the yard. As Solo went to follow, three guards emerged from the shop, brandishing pistols at the shouting mechanics.

“Ten against two,” Solo remarked.

“Not even a challenge.”

They leapt, landing in somersaults and rolling to stand on their feet. For a small instant, the guards were stunned, unable to react in lieu of the confounding kerfuffle. That was all the agents needed. They stood back to back, taking down at least four lackeys before they even lifted their guns.

The next few were trickier. Solo cursed the one who made him throw himself in the sand and on top of a particularly greasy automobile engine. Even if it was just for a mission, it was a crime to so thoroughly destroy a good suit.

Six down, four to go. A bullet grazed Solo’s shoulder, ripping fabric and flesh in an instant. He whirled to face his attacker, and found Illya had already vaulted over to him.

The Russian shot him point blank.

Solo blinked, but every time he did so, he saw the image replayed on his eyelids. The remaining guards—three underpaid, overwhelmed men—backed away slowly, guns still in their hands put fingers away from the triggers. Every sound in the yard stopped, every man froze, and every breath ceased.

Illya strolled calmly over to the guards. They looked relieved, but also terrified. He smiled, a sickening, bloodthirsty grin, and snapped one’s neck. The other two he dispatched with shots through their throats, and they went down gurgling, choking on their own fluids. They were dead a minute later as the yard diffused into an eerie silence.

“We have to go,” Solo told Illya.

He reached out to touch his shoulder but thought better of it and held it at his side. Illya’s whole body was rigid; even his breaths hardly moved his chest. His clothes were soaked through with blood, and his face was splattered with it. Bright blue eyes were darkened like a thunderstorm over the ocean, gold hair matted with black grease like a bloody eclipse.

“They all die.”

“Woah man, we just work here!” a particularly bold mechanic pleaded.

He swallowed and jumped when Illya approached him, pressing the gun beneath his chin.

Solo shuffled in place, shoved his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, rubbed them on his torn trousers. Illya and the mechanic were frozen, a statue of a showdown.

The screech of tires out front and the familiar _zing_ of a gun with a silencer swept them back to reality. Solo and Illya made eye contact, their partner’s name on their lips. Illya cursed, backhanded the man with his pistol, and bolted away. Solo saluted the working-men and followed.

The two men barreled through the garage, knocking over furniture and customers alike. No guards seemed to be pursuing them, but their eyes swept every new square foot of space until they hit the door. Not even bothering with the handle, Illya had crashed through the glass with the strength of a bull, and Solo was sure the choice was intentional and not out of haste.

Gaby was already driving, but only in second gear, giving Solo and Illya plenty of time to catch up. Their shoes slammed into the sidewalk, then the pavement. Solo was vaguely aware of the shouts, but they were like echoes. The only aim was that backseat, a white leather interior of a red convertible, already covered in plastic so it wouldn’t be stained by the boys’ grime.

Illya jumped before he did, his long legs landing him only on the back of the car, hands hooked over the headrests. His legs swung wildly as he struggled and Solo’s heart hammered deafeningly. For what seemed like an eternity, he hung on with one hand, Gaby screaming for the Russian to get in. She slowed down—a dangerous option; Solo could hear the police sirens—and Solo was able to use the leverage of the curb to land in the back seat when he jumped.

He hoisted Illya in, both of them grimacing and grunting. The blonde collapsed onto the seat, chest heaving, face clammy, and gripping his side violently.

Solo pried his fingers away; they were wet with blood. He tried to make eye contact with Illya, to ask his permission, but the man was close to fainting, eyelids fluttering. So he ripped the sweater open and found a gaping wound in his abdomen, scattered with dirt and ash and debris. By the looks of it, it was from the bomb.

Solo’s mind raced. He thought of the blood before they left, Illya’s lies, his hidden pain. He bit his lip, hot tears pricking his wind-dried eyes. He had tackled him, pinned him, forced him into a skirmish. He was just as responsible for his death as the man who had planted that bomb.

“Drive!” he screamed at Gaby. “Get us to a fucking hospital!”

She seemed shocked. Solo knew there was something urgent in his eyes, something insane and aggressive and wild. And he knew she could see his terror, his hands clasped over the hole in a futile attempt to staunch it, the other aperture feeling for a pulse in Illya’s neck. His body was twisted uncomfortably, half in the seat and half on the floor as he attempted to lay Illya flat. She watched the road and the American, who whispered nonsensical platitudes and shouted orders at her as she climbed higher and higher in the gear.

As they drove out of the city, he knew she could see that he loved him.


	6. The Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this has taken so long. I have been rather ill, both emotionally and physically, and writing was not something I was able to accomplish. Fear not, though- spring break is coming soon! Thank you for still reading. Hopefully this is an adequate reward for your patience.

Gaby was beginning to think she was the only one with a level head. Horns blared incessantly around them, and Solo was irate. The police were still chasing them—apparently armed robbery, murder, and grand theft auto weren’t acceptable in such high class London society—and everything was just so damn loud. But the road ahead of her was the focus, the natural rhythm of a clutch in her fist, the up and down of the gears, as she switched lanes looking for-

“—a fucking hospital, Gaby. We lost all the med supplies in that bomb.”

 _That wasn’t the only thing we lost,_ she thought grimly, but kept her mouth shut. She glanced at her companions in the mirror, swallowing her fear down when she realized just how much blood was coming from Illya’s abdomen.

As if sensing her thoughts, Solo yelled over the wind, “It’s not all his!”

“Yours? Theirs?” Clutch in, shift to third, make an illegal turn, back to fourth.

“Somebody’s.”

She dared to look back again; Solo hadn’t even checked himself for wounds and was still anxiously inspecting the Russian. A sign for the hospital rose into view and Gaby swerved to the turn lane, ignoring the screech of tires and angry shouting of the other drivers. She no longer heard police sirens. Called off by Waverly or forfeiting the chase; she did not know and barely cared.

The team’s stolen convertible pulled into a parking-place directly adjacent to a dumpster, near some rather disgruntled employees on their cigarette break. One saw the blood and covered his mouth in horror. The nurse beside him crushed her cigarette into the concrete and offered to help.

“Just supply,” Gaby said, thickening her German accent to an extreme.

She transformed from her cool and collected self to a panicked girl with questionable English skills in an instant. Solo appreciated the attempt to reestablish some semblance of a cover, but the scarlet liquid painting his hands felt monumentally more important. The nurse went to get a closer look at the wound, frowned, and then shouted a list of items to her coworkers. When she offered to assist in treating the injury, Solo nearly bit her hand off as he snarled, “I got it.” If Gaby hadn’t been so concerned with her innocent pretense, she would have smacked him.

For what was only an instant but stretched to eternity to the panicked pair, they waited for the employees to return with supplies. Gaby even kept the car on, knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel. Her neck was sore from craning it to look at Solo and Illya. The American had made himself as small as possible, rigid and uncomfortable as he allowed Illya to stretch out straight and flat. The Russian’s head was on the door and supported by Solo’s suit jacket, his chest being compressed by two firm hands on a bloody shirt, and his legs bent around Solo’s body as if the former thief was going to straddle him. He was listless and shivering.

At last, the uniformed workers returned, each with packages in their hands. Medicine, stitches, gauze, all in clear plastic bags. Again Gaby wondered if Waverly had intervened, telephoned ahead and left orders to follow the instructions of the brunette girl and her bickering backseat boys. They didn’t even have to flash their agent badges; silver plated circles that read “U.N.C.L.E.” in bold font.

But these were questions for later, when Illya wasn’t dying and Solo wasn’t carrying on like lunatic. She thanked the staff for the items as they piled them around Solo, and then they were off to their next destination.

In the back, Solo ripped the supply bags open with his teeth, one hand on Illya at all times. Gaby was driving to their new hotel now; Waverly had thankfully left them a new address and fresh keycards when he left them new clothes hours ago, before all of _this._

Solo was breathing so fast his chest hurt, but it was a dull ache beneath his worry for Illya, manifesting itself physically in sweat and nausea. That face, usually so warm—with hatred, purpose, anger, anything—was pale, ashen, cold. Illya’s long lashes clung to his face as his eyes rolled beneath the lids. Weakly, his fingers curled on the edge of the seat, and his legs twitched on either side of Solo.

“Finally got your legs around me, eh Peril?” he mouthed around delicate medicinal supplies clamped between his teeth.

Illya groaned, and Solo would have smiled if he wasn’t so terrified. He alerted Gaby that their friend was still conscience, but his glee faded quickly as he recalled the needle and stitches he held.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

He dabbed at that ugly, gaping hole with clean rags rather than his oily clothing, which he discarded on the floor. That was just what he needed—to save Illya from a bomb, only to kill him with an infection. Solo cleaned up as much of the blood as he could manage with Illya still actively bleeding, afterwards threading the needle. Clenching his jaw, he apologized again quickly and quietly to his comrade, then plunged the metal into his flesh. A strangled scream—a natural response, one Illya likely would have suppressed if fully aware—clambered out of his laboring lungs. Each completed stitch drew a gruff whimper from the Russian, who would no doubt deny the pain later, and be humiliated by his behavior.

When he was through, Solo shakily deposited the instruments and leftover thread in a clean bag, zipped it, and tossed it to the passenger seat in case they needed it again. Illya’s lips were white and chapped, and he was fully unconscious at that point. His eyes fluttered beneath the lids, and pained moans slipped from his aching mouth.

Solo rubbed his hands over his face, frowning. “How close are we?” the American asked Gaby.

She answered with the click of a turn signal and slowed down as she turned into the hotel parking lot. It was rather barren, with most tourists likely out and about for London sightseeing tour, which was ideal for transporting their injured friend. Blood in public view never ended well, at least in Solo’s experience.

Gaby parked close, right next to the small patio that led to a four-door entrance. Warmly lit, with potted green plants scattered around the tan concrete, it was a strange setting through which to carry their gruesomely blood-soaked teammate. Gaby basically ripped the keys out of the ignition, the panicked urgency setting in as she scrambled out of the car to push the front seat forward, making room for the mostly uninjured pair of them to carry Illya. When she extended her arms to help, she found Solo was already holding him, having lifted him out of the backseat and into his arms like a bride. Gaby knew a fireman’s carry would just risk more injury to the Russian, but Solo was leaning precariously under his friend’s weight.

Solo’s arm throbbed where the bullet had grazed him, and Illya was far too tall to make carrying him alone comfortable or reasonable. But something in him stirred when he thought of Gaby helping, something ugly and, he supposed, misguided, and he held onto the Russian, ignoring the way his leg and arm muscles shook and knees threatened to buckle under the Illya’s abnormal bulk. He nodded off her protests that she at least take his legs, arguing that she was too small anyway and would throw off their balance as a unit. She begrudgingly agreed, and he asked her to get the door. The trio struggled along in silence.

Gaby pushed open the doors forcefully, a slight stiffness in her expression that Solo knew meant she was pissed at him. Heels silent against the plush red carpet, she marched up to the desk and rang the bell.

A woman in her lobby uniform walked out of the back room, smiling in preparation to interact with customers. Her mouth set in a firm line when she saw the dirty, windswept state Gaby was in, and her the color drained from her face when she saw Illya.

“Is… he dead?” she asked, pointing a trembling, manicured finger to the pale Russian.

“No,” Gaby snapped impatiently, “but he will be if you do not get me my room key.”

“…Certainly, ma’am. The name for the room?” The woman’s voice was tinged with frustration and fear.

“U.N.C.L.E.”

“Right away.”

The receptionist was too slow for Solo, who had already paced toward the elevator and was staring at the button, seriously considering assaulting it with a fist as he impatiently awaited the room number and key card. Every muscle in his body screamed to remove the extra weight, and he knew he was bleeding in a few places. Seeing Illya, though, reminded him he gladly would withstand the pain and pressure. After all, his heart was screaming the loudest. It had started at that car and had yet to stop.

“Twelve-two-two,” Gaby rattled off as the suspicious and scared receptionist returned and she snatched the card from her shaking fingers.

Breathing heavily and ignoring the shocked faces of the hotel employees, Solo grunted in and lunged forward. He pressed the button and the doors slid open with an immediate _ding,_ much to his gratitude.

The floor was tessellated with black and white squares. Almost as soon as they entered the elevator and Gaby pressed the button to the top floor—Solo registered absentmindedly that Waverly must have secured them a penthouse suite—the American saw blood drip onto the white tile.

Each floor was agony, and each time the door opened for an unsuspecting hotel resident, Solo wanted to murder someone. Gaby was much better at negotiating the people out of their route, and five minutes later, they were finally struggling down the hall of floor twelve. Gaby counted the room numbers out loud, knowing Solo only had his gaze on Illya for the time being.

“ _Here,”_ she finally said, more of an exhale than a word.

Solo was about ready to break down the door. Sensing this, Gaby put herself between him and the door, winding her tiny body into the small space and unlocking the room. She vaulted out of the way and back into the hall before Solo could barrel her over. Solo didn’t feel too guilty when he realized he would have wrecked her to be in there.

He set the Russian down as gently as possible, and he made no sound. That was troubling.

“Did you bring the supplies?”

“Yeah, at least one of us had the sense to actually help him.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Gaby?”

“You’ve been so focused on getting him up here; what… what would have happened if you’d been alone? If you left all those meds in the car, couldn’t get in the room? I’m here, too, Solo, and I’m doing a hell of a lot.”

Solo cleared his throat, realization glinting in his blue eyes. “You’re right. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“You damn well should be!” Gaby yelled, her resolve finally crumbling. Two teammates, one barely alive, the other with no faith in her, and her leading the idiots around with barely a word of validation. She was surprised she had lasted so long. She lowered her voice dangerously. “Would you even be this worried if we hadn’t made that bet?”

Solo flinched. Gaby scoffed and tossed him the medical supplies. Her fingers left dirty fingerprint smears on the plastic, and Solo stared at them for a tense moment before asking if she okay. Gaby hissed and flung herself onto the unnecessarily large loveseat parallel to the sofa on which Illya was laying. She watched each move of Solo’s fingers as he worked, wondering idly if art theft had made him so good with his hands. They were steady, his jaw was tight, and his body was shaking only because the muscles were so fatigued and he had no energy to stop it.

“I care about him, too, y’know,” she whispered, and a tear rolled down her wind-stung cheek.

Solo’s reply was barely audible. “I know.”

“And you knew I cared about him long before we made him the winning target.”

“I suspected something was there, yes. But we were just having fun, Gaby. Nothing was supposed to turn out like this.” He leaned back, weight shifting to his thighs and the top flats of his feet. “God, this is such a fucking mess.”

“No shit, Solo.” Her tone softened, but there was still ice on the edges. It would take a while for it all to thaw. “I thought he would be mine at the end of it all. That he would reject you, and you’d laugh it off and go find a bellboy and take it out on him. That he didn’t mean anything to you besides not spending the week in Russia alone, besides another win under your belt.”

“He’s my friend,” Solo choked.

“Something tells me you realized he’s more than that, now.”

Solo didn’t answer. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes, and his hand drifted over Illya’s bare abdomen, where the stitches had stopped the bleeding. Some blood had been washed away by the towels and wipes provided by the hospital staff, but only a shower could erase it all. Finally, as if being lifted, Solo rose, his hand propelled away from the Russian’s body. His shoulders slumped forward, defeated and isolated.

“I can’t talk about this here,” he said, and stomped out into the hallway.

Gaby blinked slowly. Then, she rose with a sigh, grabbed two drinks from the minibar, kicked off her shoes, and joined Solo in the hallway, propping the door open with a roll of unused gauze. “Well?” she prompted, and saw the ghost of a smile on Solo’s lips when she slid a tiny bottle of whiskey to him.

“I think, no… No, I am; I’m in love with him. Yeah. I’m in love with Illya.” The words came out rushed, disjointed, unplanned. He looked like he was suffocating, and Gaby recognized a horrible part of herself that didn’t want to throw him a lifeline.

The better part won out. “Then you should never had made that bet with me.”

“I didn’t know at the time!”

“Then are you sure you didn’t just get wound up in the mark? In the seduction game. Waverly gave me your file, your classified one. Art theft involves more romantic swindling than I thought. I know enough about your past that I can’t be certain this isn’t your mind playing tricks on you.”

Solo grimaced and wrung his hands together. He sat with his legs wide, back against the wall, head hung, arms between his knees, feet tapping the floor. Gaby also knew enough about his past that this was one of the few moments where the infamous Napoleon Solo was uncertain.

“I need you at your best, Solo. Figure this out. I can handle the emotional fallout, and hell, he might come to me in the end.” Solo’s head snapped up, his eyes dark and hard, but she ignored him. “The game is over; we have a mission to complete and a partner to protect. I’m going to call Waverly and clean some of this up, determine our next move.” She stood daintily and offered her hand to the American. He refused to take it, and she frowned at him until he looked away.

“Just… take care of him until I get back.”

“You know I will.”

Gaby puffed up her cheeks and blew out the air noisily, peering down the hallway in exasperation. She wouldn’t play these childish games, not with so much at stake. With one last glance at Solo—he was studying his scuffed shoes intently, picking at the dirt and blood caught in the crevices—she walked briskly away, trying not to let his petulance faze her. Something else stirred within her, too; maybe jealousy, she conceded. But that would go away in time with discipline. Solo’s, she feared, was far more permanent.

When she was gone, Solo let out a breath he had not meant to hold. He stood too fast, the blood rushing through his body and silver stars dancing in his vision. Steadying himself on the wall beside the door, he kept time on every inhale and exhale to calm himself. Then, he unlocked the room and stepped inside. His eyes instantly traveled to the unconscious Russian, whom he approached with the utmost care.

His hands were shaking as he reached out to touch him.


	7. The Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am beyond grateful for all of the readers who have left me comments asking me to continue this story. It's very dear to me, but often I lack motivation or ability. You bring those things back to me. Thank you!

Although he had anticipated it, Solo’s heart still jumped when Illya’s hand snatched his wrist midair, stopping any intentions of the breathless American. He opened his eyes, and the feral darkness within them alerted Solo that this was the psychotic KGB agent that had never quite been hidden away. Fleeing would be both futile and moronic, so he clenched his jaw and waited, unaccustomed to breaking people from flashbacks. There was no telling how Illya would respond, what would trigger him or what would calm him. Solo could only hope it passed without any physical damage to either of them.

Illya hissed a Russian curse and yanked Solo towards him. The American flailed and stretched out with his other arm to brace himself on the couch. Instead, the flat of his palm made contact with Illya’s abdomen. The other man’s outraged cry immediately morphed into an agonized howl and he let go. Solo took the opportunity to jump back and stand motionless where his friend could no longer reach him.

The hotel room fell into tense silence when the scream cut off. Solo didn’t dare speak, and he was sure if Illya was still breathing. He counted a languorous five seconds approached with the trepidation of a man tasked with tranquilizing a bear.

“Illya?” he asked, shocked when his voice came out steady.

A groan sounded. Then, “Cowboy?”

God, he would have been so embarrassed had Illya seen the smile gracing his features. Even, so his reply had the brightness of the stars in it. “I thought I’d lost you.” How he managed to make it sound teasing was beyond him.

“It will take more than little bomb to kill me.” His chuckle turned into a gurgle.

Now the silence was awkward. Solo shifted his weight from side to side and scratched the back of his neck. “Can I change your bandages?” he offered. Blood had soaked through them already; it had only been an hour since Solo had dressed those and left the Russian in the massive room.

“I can do myself.”

“I’m sure you can, but it’s always nice to have some extra hands.” A charming smile followed his mirth.

“Watch it, Cowboy,” Illya snapped. Solo raised his eyebrows.

Illya coughed and groaned again. Staring at the high ceiling, Solo finally stepped forward, looming over him, gut clenching and mouth dry and legs weak. He felt like a school boy again, flustered over his crush, as he dropped to one knee and carefully slid a hand over the grey, clammy forehead of his fallen comrade. Illya flinched and Solo withdrew once more, only to be motioned to come closer.

The Russian’s voice was dry, withered. He peered down at his continuously reddening bandages and grimaced, then gritted out a request for Solo to assist him. The mental effort it took him to do so was almost tangible.

Solo nodded, taking care to keep his expression neutral. He helped Illya sit up, hands on his shoulder, then his back, his chest. In the last few days, he had been closer to Illya than he had ever dreamed, and it was entirely new sensation. Though not unwelcome, the situations that put them together were precarious, and he hoped danger wasn’t the only catalyst for their newfound intimacy.

Slowly, with his fingers lingering perhaps a bit too long on Illya’s bare skin to be considered decent, he unwrapped the sticky gauze. Illya was staring straight ahead, boring a hole in the door. He would not look at Solo, even when the American asked him to move to help him better reach the bandages. To outsiders, he may have seemed stoic, but Solo could see the clench in his chin, the trembling of his fingers that meant rage, that usually meant _run_ to their enemies.

Solo deposited the tattered material on the floor and took time to appreciate Illya’s abs before focusing his attention to the stitches. They were fraying. Solo’s hasty handiwork was no match for a trip up to the twelfth floor in someone else’s arms.

“I did a shit job of that,” he admitted, hoping to coax some sort of laugh.

The effort was in vain. Illya simply nodded in agreement and then asked for the med kit so he could fix them himself. Solo’s convoluted feelings of pride and concern caused him to protest this plan, and they went about squabbling for the next two minutes. Still, the Russian refused to make eye contact—he refused to do anything but growl at Solo, really—and continuously raised himself as if he was going to get up and search for the supplies. The American, in turn, was tasked with forcing him down, and Illya reacted as if every touch of his hand to his shoulder was an iron brand.

“You _do not touch me,_ ” he snarled. Solo backed down immediately. He was stubborn, yes, but not stupid.

Solo set his jaw and met the Russian’s eyes. He blinked away surprise when he was met with confusion and something almost apologetic. And fear. The wide pupils were a dead giveaway.

“I won’t hurt you,” he placated weakly. As predicted, Illya laughed at him.

And perhaps it was because he loved a challenge, or because it was the worst possible timing he could have foreseen, Solo leaned in. He tipped his head forward, breath ghosting over Illya’s mouth until he closed the space between them. He had meant to kiss Illya with more confidence, more certainty, but he would take it. God, the feeling of Illya’s mouth, his chapped lips and the taste of winter; he would have taken that however he could. Illya opened his mouth in pure shock, but to Solo, it felt like an invitation. He licked Illya’s tongue.

That was all it took. Illya reared back and promptly slammed both hands into Solo’s shoulders, sending him flying back into the coffee table. The pain of the impact was lessened only by adrenaline. And then Illya stood, towering over his dazed comrade, who was on his hands and knees as he gulped air back into his lungs. A long leg extended and caught him in the ribs; his body snapped back and his head hit the hard corner of the table. Black spots crept into his vision. He felt blood on his lip where he had bit it, and looked up at Illya as he wiped it off, defiant yet lost. He was on his knees, back to the table, head reeling.

Illya paused, fist suspended in the air. His chest was heaving and the stitches were almost torn out. For a moment, he looked like he would rather comfort Solo rather than complete the assault. So Solo took that chance.

“Я люблю тебя,” Solo breathed, never looking away. _I love you._

Illya backhanded him. It sent him to the floor again, but he stayed down this time after he turned onto his back. The KGB agent stomped a bare foot down on either side of him, right under his outstretched arms, and bent his lean body down to put his snarling face in clear view. “You Americans, you have sickness,” he barked. “You confuse love and lust, and right and wrong. You disgust me.”

Those taunts were familiar, always spoken with the same ferocious venom. Solo closed his eyes. He would not cry in front of this man.

“Am I just good bet and bed?”

He was frozen. Even if he could will his sore eyes open, it was impossible. Illya had heard them. He knew. But this, this was about everything, about Solo being male and about the wager. His stomach twisted and he thought he would be sick.

“Fucking coward!” Illya shouted. The next punch was delivered straight to his nose, and he felt it break.

That opened his eyes. Solo stared up, biting his tongue against the need to scream or to bite back. This was Illya’s choice, and although he could feel his heart screaming in protest, he had to let him make it. Maybe it would force him to move on, or show him Gaby was right and he had just wrapped himself up too much in the mind games.

A drop of blood fell from the body leaning over him, and Solo furrowed his brown in confusion before he recalled the stitches. Upon closer inspection, they were all ripped. He was bleeding again, the loss turning his skin a sallow pale.

“Your stitches,” he gasped. The next words were lost when he rolled to his side to cough up blood.

Illya recoiled suddenly as if Solo had fought back. He staggered away, clutching the wound, memories surfacing from the depths of his mind that he would have preferred to keep locked away for all of eternity.

“Get out,” he ordered the American.

“Slightly incapacitated, but it’s the thought that counts.”

Illya dug his nails into his palms and lowered his voice until he matched the one he used to use to interrogate suspects. The voice laced with promises of torture and death. “Get. Out.”

Solo grunted. In his current situation, the ideal reaction would be to just lay on the floor until the Russian departed, maybe go punch a wall to keep from screaming. Instead, he forced himself to sit upright, and then slowly stood, every inch of his body cramping or burning. Illya’s back was to him, and somehow the fresh blood made him more intimidating despite that it was coming from him. It dripped down his sides and onto the carpet, puddling at his feet, with scarlet rivulets on his toned legs.

Napoleon straightened his tie and fixed his suit jacket and cuffs. He wanted to wrap his arms around Illya and to talk him down, talk him out of whatever blackness had befallen him. He wanted to lean into his back and soothe him until nothing in the world was left but them.

Instead, he said nothing. He walked away and out into the and only collapsed when he got into the stairwell. Gasping for breath, he allowed the panic to consume him, and struck the wall for good measure. His knuckles took the force and he watched the skin scrape off.

Sighing, he cradled the abused aperture. He needed a drink and a good douse of common sense from Gaby. Of all the scenarios, this should have been his first guess of what would happen if he kissed Illya. Illya Kuryakin, trained killer, mentally unstable, Russian. Nothing to complement Solo’s surface of eccentricities and blitheness.

The U.N.C.L.E. team could crumble after this, for sure. He almost undoubtedly had destroyed his professional and casual relationship with Illya, and Gaby would never forgive him for this. Not if it fragmented the three of them beyond repair.

Solo wanted to go back there and demand answers. To know why Illya reacted that way, if it was inherent prejudice or a reminder of a broken childhood. Tasting the blood on his lip, Solo hated himself for wishing to be back with the other man. The bruises on his face and the way his nose throbbed made it abundantly clear that Illya never wanted to see him again.

But Solo was never one to quit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! You know it had to get sad.

**Author's Note:**

> I will try to update with the next chapter soon! Comments and kudos are appreciated. Thank you and enjoy!


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